


These Hands (Not Her Own)

by Lassarina



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: F/F, Masturbation, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-14
Updated: 2011-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 15:05:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassarina/pseuds/Lassarina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These hands that touch her are not her own, nor the fantasy; the other guides her body as surely as her mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Hands (Not Her Own)

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2011 round of kink bingo. The square was mind control/hypnosis.

The fantasy is not her own.

Edea has never been one for partners bowed and broken, all resistance sapped. She finds pleasure most in shared joy. A spirit crushed before her brings out her desire to comfort, and sex is the farthest thing from her mind.

Yet still awareness prickles over her skin, a slow cool shiver that she recognizes.

"No," she says aloud, soft but firm. She is alone in the suite that President Deling has leased for her—has leased for the sorceress who directs her body like a puppet, whose words come from her lips with an arrogance Edea has neither possessed nor desired of her own volition. She could just as easily communicate her thoughts silently, but saying it aloud gives it a weight and presence that her mind does not.

 _Yes._ It's less a word than an impression, and the control expands to cover more of her mind. She has tried to pinpoint where it comes from, but she cannot. It simply is, a net that expands.

Nets can be burned. She fights it off, using the mental image of fire to burn the strands of the net, but the other sorceress slides around her and turns the net to fire, making everything burn hotter. Edea's dress is too warm. She leans forward in the chair to unfasten the back of the dress; even the slide of the fabric over her nipples provokes intense sensation.

Her hands are not her own.

The more she tries to fight the other sorceress, the less she seems able to; she is fenced in within her own mind, and the other takes control of her hands. She touches her own breasts with a trailing caress from the sharp tips of her nails, something Edea doesn't enjoy but that makes her pulse beat heavier. The carved wood of the throne-like chair that Deling sent is cool against her skin. She spreads her legs, making room for her hands. The other sorceress scrapes Edea's nails against the inside of her thighs, a sharp and uncomfortable sting.

"No," she says aloud again, but her voice is less firm this time.

The other sends a deluge of images, bodies drawn tight in ecstasy or agony. Sometimes it is hard to tell which. Edea would turn away, but she cannot avert her mind as she might her eyes. A few of the images spark some shiver of interest, and though she tries to ignore it, the other sorceress is there to pounce on the slightest reaction. The intimacy of it is breathtaking and sickening at once; Edea longs to twist away from the pressure of her own fingers between her legs, but she is forbidden that option. Instead her hips arch up to meet her own touch, sending electric shivers through her.

She can feel the tension, the need for release, starting to build as her fingers rub with even, unhurried precision. She spreads her legs wider, hooking them over the arms of the throne, and tips her head back to rest against the intricately carved wood. It presses into her scalp, a sensation she dislikes, and the other sorceress turns that against her as well.

 _You are mine,_ the other sorceress says, and distracts her with the slick slide of her own fingers over her skin. She has been driven back well behind her own battle lines, boxed in by the other's power. Her body shudders in reaction, arching up and drawing tight as she grows close.

A cage is still a cage. These desires are not her own.

Her fingers move faster, driving her ever closer, and she draws her legs up until her heels are braced on the seat of the chair, leaving her open and exposed. She tries to ignore the building need, the desperation to reach release, but the other batters her weakening barriers with heat and tingling sensation. Edea can't stifle her own cries when she comes, and she lies slumped and shaking on her throne, feeling its sharp wooden edges against her skin.

 _Again._

Edea shakes her head. Even if she wanted this, she knows it is too soon.

She starts to touch herself again. Every touch makes her muscles jerk frantically, an effort to evade the seeking fingers that torment nerves already too sensitive. She can hear her own tiny noises, but she cannot fight these hands—her own—not her own. This time she screams when she comes, and she knows that if any of the hotel maids came to check on her she would not be able to summon even the small magic that would make them walk away and forget.

The other sorceress withdraws, and leaves her broken upon her throne, merely another toy tossed aside.

She returns to her own body slowly, and forces herself to get up, to wash herself with hands that are her own and not her own, to clothe herself once again. She is wary, ever cautious of the net that spreads out from the depths of her mind to wrap her in a prison of her own mind (not her own), but for now, the other is quiescent.

Edea returns to her throne and waits. She has grown good at waiting. She plays out plans that are not her own, and when Deling calls her out on the stage, she gives a speech that is not her own.

She is not sure what is hers anymore.


End file.
